When Erich had finished the last of the cleaning, he draped his dishrag over a line strung across the stove. He picked up a candle from the tabletop, and extinguishing the others, crossed the room. Placing it on the windowsill above the bedstead, he sat beside me and began to remove his shoes. I had been exhausted when I first sat down, but now the proximity of his body set my heart pounding. I glanced down at his hands. He was in the midst of heaving off his right boot. I admired the girth of his calf muscle, and closed my eyes imagining how he would react if I caressed it. Just then, he gasped audibly, and I looked to see that he could not bend his other leg enough to grasp the boot.
"I'll do it," I said, as I slid from the mattress to the floor in front of his feet.
Gingerly, I took hold of the heel and toe of the boot and pulled it off. His sock slid off as well, exposing his skin. I saw for the first time that his foot was swollen. He winced at my touch. Rolling up the leg of his trousers, I found the rest of his leg to be angry red, inflamed, and hot to the touch. My hand began to tremble. This was reminiscent of my days in the hospital. I had seen too many young men perish in this war because infection, not weapons, posed a more imminent threat to their lives. I would not stand by to witness another death. He groaned, and I looked into his eyes, seeing in them a pain that had been unmasked.
"This looks like an infection. How long has it been this way?" I asked.
"Not long. Two days, maybe three," he replied. "It's nothing to worry about."
"Lie back. Let me see the wound."
